


You Know The Bird By Its Song

by soupmetaphors



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:41:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24569425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soupmetaphors/pseuds/soupmetaphors
Summary: The Legion takes the Dam, and Inculta sends the courier to Flagstaff. With the walls of the city closing in around her, the courier must find it in herself to escape her past and present before it is too late.
Relationships: Female Courier/Vulpes Inculta
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28





	You Know The Bird By Its Song

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has been simmering for about three years. i began it as [The Fox Wife](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11021928/chapters/24562425) and never found the motivation to pick it up, although its story has always remained in my to-do list. so here we are, giving it another try.
> 
> i'll list the trigger warnings- if any- at the beginning of the corresponding chapter.

She spends half of the journey to Flagstaff sitting on the back of a wagon, staring at the road receding behind them. Her head aches constantly; the dip of the earth beneath the hooves of the brahmin only increases the dull pressure behind her temples, the wheels of the wagon finding every hole this godforsaken earth has to offer.

She shouldn’t be seated here, on the last wagon of the trail. It isn’t _befitting_ of her station, yet Dolores cannot find it in herself to move back up, closer to the head of the wagon train. She wants to see the road. She wants to watch it all disappear— Vegas, the dam, the roads she has meandered along day after day, dawn to dusk.

And she does.

The familiar sights of the Mojave melt away as the train moves further and further away, but her gaze never leaves the old tower that seems to brush the sky. She tries to memorize the way it looks, this monument out of time, this now-silent tomb. Many a time she has stumbled towards it in the darkness of the desert, counting on its light to take her to a place where— for once— she could melt into the crowd, become another anonymous reveler in a city that would never sleep.

When the tower finally vanishes from her line of sight, she spends the other half lying in the darkness of the wagon, among the supplies they have brought back from Vegas: enough for them to reach the seat of the mighty Caesar’s Legion, and perhaps even enough to be redistributed among the families of officers who have shown distinction in their Mojave campaign. She hears the shift of rice in burlap, the earthy smell of tubers and yucca in the bags pressing in around her.

In the darkness, it is almost easy to forget who she is.

In the darkness, the slow scratch of her nails against the wooden floor of the wagon sounds like forgiveness.

* * *

The first thing she notices is the bruises around Arcade’s neck: they escape the folds of his collar blooming across his skin like wildflowers. She knows what they are without asking— it seems like a lifetime ago, her own neck had been caught in such a vise, in an empty casino buried deep, _deep_ in the desert.

“Caesar didn’t want me chained like a dog.” Arcade glances at her, and she averts her gaze, embarrassed at being caught looking. “He said he’d been looking for someone who shared the same _intellectual views_ as he does.”

Dolores says nothing. What _is_ there to say to him? That she’s sorry? That the road to hell is paved with good intentions? These words hold no meaning for him, and even less to her now that the damage has been done.

They stand together at the edge of the water, the rocks shielding them from the hustle and bustle of the camp. Here, she can only hear the soft cry of birds in the distance, the crunch of sand beneath her boots as she shifts nervously from foot to foot.

“Did you want something, Dolores?” He sounds like she’s just popped into his room to ask him to come with her. He sounds so _normal_ that her chest hurts.

“Here—” Bending down, she picks up the sack by her feet, thrusts it at him, “— figured you might have more use for it.”

Arcade takes the bag, eyebrows raised skeptically. They raise even further when he reaches in and pulls out her Pip-Boy.

Dolores holds up a hand, stopping him before he can speak. “I don’t want it to fall into the wrong hands. And— and you’re the only person here I can trust.”

He laughs. He laughs long, he laughs loud, and she takes a step back, unnerved by this sudden outburst of noise. Tossing the sack to the ground, Arcade holds up the device. His eyes are wild; the realization that perhaps, just perhaps, she shouldn’t have done this strikes her as he advances on her.

“No,” he says, when they are barely a foot apart. “No, you don’t get to say that.”

“Arcade—” _You’re scaring me._ “— please. Just take it. I don’t care what you do with it, I _can’t_ keep it.”

“If you can’t keep it, there’s a sure chance in hell _I_ can’t either.”

“You’re Caesar’s doctor—”

He flinches. Draws back from her, as though she has struck him. Dolores takes the opportunity to turn to go; too long, and her presence might be missed. They’ve allowed her a modicum of freedom in the Mojave, but she knows before long, the walls will close in around her.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him, without looking back. “I— I need go.”

She barely takes two steps before he grabs her arm, spins her around to face him. Fingers dig into her wrist, and she tries to pull out of his grasp to no avail.

“Let _go_ —”

“Listen to me, Dolores,” Arcade says, in a voice so quiet she has no choice _but_ to be silent. “No one can run away from the things they’ve done. Not even you.”

 _I’m not running_.

She holds his gaze as best as she can, unwilling to let him win this little confrontation; but the anger in his eyes is too hot, too intense, and she finds herself retreating, eyes dropping to his shoulder. She stares at the Followers’ patch sewn onto the rough material of his coat. The longer she looks, the less the red thread seems to make up that familiar symbol, the less this whole situation feels real.

If she closes her eyes, she might find herself waking up in a bed she hasn’t felt in years, in a house with vases filled with wilted flowers at every corner and the radio tuned for the chatter of outskirt patrols.

If she closes her eyes, she will be lost.

So she stares at the red cross until her eyes water, until Arcade lets go of her hand roughly. The strength of his movement makes her step back, rubbing her wrist gingerly. She still cannot bring herself to look him in the eyes.

“I suspect you have other engagements to attend, instead of standing here.”

Naturally. The last precious sands of her freedom are trickling to the bottom of the hourglass and here she is, wasting them on apologies she knows she cannot convey to a man who will not accept them.

Dolores takes a breath. She tries to find the words in a way that will make it seem gentle, but it is hard to find _anything_ gentle these days, in her voice, in her hands, in her entire being.

So when she tells him, it is blunt: “I’ve been ordered to leave for Flagstaff.”

He blinks owlishly at her. She can hear the gears grinding in his head, the words getting ready to crawl up his throat: _you got us into this mess and now you’re leaving us in it._

“He wants me to go ahead. Says there’s a home for us there.”

“Do you want to go?” Arcade asks, in a flat voice.

“Do I have a choice?”

“I don’t know, Dolores. Does anyone anymore?”

There, again, that accusatory tone, that spotlight glare pinning her to the spot. She bites her bottom lip, worrying the skin beneath her teeth until she tastes blood. Arcade shakes his head in disgust, turning away from her.

“I hope we won’t see each other again,” he tells her, and it’s the abrupt lack of emotion that stings her the most.

She watches him pull his arm back, fingers tightening around the straps of her Pip-Boy, the muscles in his shoulders tensing; turns before he carries out his intent, tries to put as much distance between them before it happens, before she loses another part of herself.

Her efforts are futile; she has only walked so far before she hears the splash of the device hitting the water.

She thinks she will stop; but her legs carry her on, away from the lake. Somewhere along the way, she realizes she is running, running, running—

* * *

“— get up.”

The world returns to her in waves: the stiffness of her legs, the dryness of her tongue, and, still, the incessant headache that will not seem to wane. The stillness of the wagon a brief respite from the bumpy journey, and she does not move at first.

“ _Surge_ , little bird.”

The sound of canvas being moved, before light spills into the wagon, causing her to raise a hand in front of her face. Dolores murmurs unintelligibly, still lost in the last vestiges of sleep.

“Come now, before you miss dinner.”

Tentatively, she props herself up on her elbows. The sun is against the stranger’s back, throwing his face into shadow. Clearing her throat, she tries her voice for the first time in what seems like— and probably is— days.

“Where are we?” she asks, hoarsely.

“Just outside Arizona.” She can feel his eyes on her. “You should be in front. We’ve been looking through every wagon for you.”

“Does it matter where I sit?”

“Do you think it does?”

The question for an answer leaves her quiet. She sits up, before reaching for the edge of the wagon to hold as she maneuvers herself out of her little spot. Her joints groan as her feet find solid ground; when she turns to look at the legionary, her neck cracks audibly.

“The wind in my hair reminds me of—” Dolores bites in the inside of her cheek, abruptly aware of who she is talking to, “— the past.”

If he senses her discomfort, the soldier does not bring attention to it. He drops the canvas and leans against the wagon, arms folded.

“I wouldn’t like Inculta to find out we’ve been treating his wife like cattle.”

“He won’t find out,” she murmurs.

He looks at her, and the naivety of her answer bites at the edges of her thoughts. This man must think her a fool, to even pretend that Inculta’s eyes and ears do not stretch as far as this wagon train, that they will not snake all the way to the city with her.

“You must be hungry. The mess tent is this way.” Pushing himself off the wagon, the legionary disappears round its side, and she takes a moment before following him.

His words wash over her like the tide: _Inculta’s wife._ As if the silver band around her finger does not signify she is married to an officer, as if his name is not branded into the underside of the metal, pressed into her flesh.

As if she needs more reminders.

Shaking off a shiver, Dolores follows her self-appointed guide, weaving through wagons, pass legionaries of all ranks chatting and sitting around, making the most of their stop. The mood on the road seems lighter than the strict confines of the camp; away from the frontlines of war, the formalities and harshness bleed slightly away: she even hears the strum of a guitar, faint voices singing in Latin carried to her on the wind.

Eventually, they make it to the hastily erected mess tent. Her guide motions at her to wait, and she stops without thinking. It is so easy to be obedient, she finds; to be compliant and numb, to follow through given instructions. After all, following instructions is how she has ended up in this situation in the first place.

She stands beside the tent, watching soldiers duck in and out. Each time the flap of the tent is lifted, she can smell roasting meat, hear the roar of laughter. It is loud, _too_ loud, and she is almost glad when her guide slips out with two bowls laden with stew.

He looks around for her, nods when his gaze finds her. Out of the shadows, she can see him clearly: A common legionary by his armor, broad-shouldered with hair slicked back in that ridiculous Vegas trend.

He notices her staring, grins as he hands her a bowl. “Don’t look at me that way. My decanus already yammered my ear off about that.”

It hurts to hear that familiar Vegas talk, and she swears he might as well be doing this for her benefit alone, but the words come too smooth, too quick for it to be an imitation meant to settle her.

He leads her away from the tent, away from the wagon train, up the hills on their side of the cracked highway. It isn’t that far away from the group— they’re still close enough to hear the clamor of the soldiers, the lowing of the brahmin, but far enough to sit and eat uninterrupted.

The stew is rich with rabbit meat and vegetables, the spices eliciting a pleasant burn in her mouth as she eats. When she finishes, her guide shares his canteen with her. He watches her drink, and she watches him over the rim in turn.

“Thank you,” she mumbles, handing it back to him when she is finished; wipes her mouth on the back of her hand and lets her gaze drift off to the side.

Briefly, she wonders how far she will get if she simply bolts.

She thinks she might be able to outrun the legionary— but a whole train full of men might prove to be a problem. She doesn’t even know where they are aside from Arizona. Without a compass, without any equipment save the clothes on her back—

It is ridiculous to even consider it.

Her jaw clenches, unconsciously, and she jerks violently when she feels her guide touch her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he says, as she stares at him. “I was asking you if you would like to sit here for a little while more. We aren’t leaving for a good hour yet.”

Dolores eyes him, warily. This man has awakened her, fed her, and now they are sitting side-by-side on a hill, and she can only think of what he desires from her.

 _But he knows who you are_ , a calmer voice in the back of her head rationalizes. _He knows what Vulpes is capable of._

“Who are you?” she asks, eyes narrowing. “Did he send you?”

The legionary blinks, stunned, before chuckling to himself. “Is that what you think of me, little bird?”

“I’m not a little bird.”

“Of course not.” The humor fades from his voice, from his eyes. “I’m Caelius. I serve under Decanus Dead Sea.”

 _Dead Sea_. The name rings familiar, and she searches her memory for it, but brings up short. Instead, she shifts, her gaze never once leaving his face, a sudden, different fear striking at her.

“Did _he_ send you?” 

“I’m heading home,” Caelius replies, simply. “It’s been a long campaign.”

“ _Did he send you?_ ” she asks a second time, voice low.

Those dark honey eyes flick down towards her hands, and she slips the one with the ring behind her back, lips pressed together in a thin line. She understands that both of them are not thinking of his decanus.

“No.” Caelius smiles, tiredly. “No, he did not.”

She doesn’t say anything, but when the movements below suggest the packing of the tent and the organization of the wagons to return to the road, she lets him lead her back down to the last wagon.

He extends a hand to help her back up, but she ignores him, using the wheels as a temporary boost. Scrambling back into the darkness of the wagon, she turns to find him still standing there, watching her curiously.

“Is there somethin’ you need?” she demands.

He doesn’t answer her, the canvas flap of the wagon falling back down as he moves away. Several minutes pass, with Dolores eyeing the flap cautiously, before he lifts it again.

“My decanus wouldn’t touch it anymore.” Caelius shows her the object, and she inhales, sharply. “He said you’d earned it.”

Dolores shakes her head. “No. No, I don’t want it—”

She _should_ want it. He is offering her a weapon; a small piece of salvation, a means to an end— and she is refusing this gift.

She knows what it is without holding it. Its edges gleam, clearly lovingly polished, and its cracked leather grip looks like it has been weathered for some time. She knows what it is, what it is capable of, what _she_ is capable of—

“I’ll have this delivered to your home when your husband joins you, if that’s what you wish.”

She nods frantically, and Caelius inclines his head. “As you wish.”

For a second time, he leaves her alone, and she counts a full minute before she is sure he isn’t about to return.

Dolores collapses back onto the floor of the wagon, pressing her hands against her face. The pieces click together like she’s flicked back the hammer of a gun, and recognition floods her mind with horrifying clarity. _Dead Sea. Forlorn Hope. Inculta’s letter pressed in her breast pocket with a kiss, leading her towards that little hellhole_ —

The decanus called it _Liberator_. She had dropped it as soon as she felt it slide into her palm, had stumbled off into the night, still reeking of blood and sweat.

_Forlorn Hope._

She lies there, in the dark, breathing heavily, trying to wrangle her thoughts together. Her nails dig into her forehead, and try as she might, she cannot even scream.

She doesn’t realize the wagons have begun moving. She doesn’t even realize her headache has disappeared.

**Author's Note:**

> updates found at [here](https://samtrapani.tumblr.com/tagged/yktbbis)! or, hopefully, updates.
> 
> glossary:
> 
> surge = wake up


End file.
